


yours

by annejumps



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: M/M, Sub!Erik, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8006155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik finally accepts it: every touch is Charles attempting to start a conversation, patiently waiting to see if Erik will respond in kind, or ask for what he wants, which is what Charles wants, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	yours

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write sub!Erik and it turned into this. :(  
> Thanks to [alexavindr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alexavindr) for being my sounding board!

It’s just that Charles _touches_ him all the time.

Erik isn’t used to being touched—not in years, anyway. A lifetime ago, there were hugs from his mother, gentle and natural as a sunrise, and there was—physical contact from Shaw, technically a touch. Sometimes an approving pat on the shoulder from a stiff, hard hand as he choked back sobs.

Charles—They keep each other within arm’s reach, it seems, and Erik almost gets used to not having to wait long to feel a brief brush of Charles’ fingers at his elbow, a friendly clap on the shoulder, a guiding gentle press at the small of his back to direct him one way or another. Sometimes—often—the touches linger, but they stop just short of lasting long enough for Erik to relax into them. As soon as the contact is broken, Erik wants it again, but he makes sure to give no indication.

Sometimes he gets images, too. He’s not sure if they’re his, or Charles’, or both of theirs: Charles’ hand smoothing down the center of his back, but over bare skin, gentle yet firm; his fingers locked around Erik’s wrist, or curled in his hair, white-knuckled, or cupping the back of his neck with an achingly light touch. Charles’ arms wrapped around him, tight, like the night they met.

Erik finally accepts it: every touch is Charles attempting to start a conversation, patiently waiting to see if Erik will respond in kind, or ask for what he wants, which is what Charles wants, after all.

We have time, Erik thinks to himself.

But then it’s the night before they’re flying to Cuba, and after midnight he walks down the silent halls to Charles’ room, and stands outside the door.

He has his doubts, then: Charles is proprietary with everyone; it’s his nature, and Erik has only imagined that he's singled him out for over-familiarity. If Erik walks in, closes the door, and drops to kneel on Charles’ carpet, hands behind his back and head bowed, he’ll only be met with surprise and confusion. And a polite attempt to discuss the misunderstanding.

Two minutes pass.

Five.

Ten.

His doubts recede the further away he walks from Charles’ door, but he still doesn’t turn back.

While he’s locked away alone under the Pentagon, he has plenty of time too, and plenty to think about. He wonders whether things would be better or worse now if he’d opened Charles’ door instead of going back to his room. If his pain would be infinitely greater, having tasted what he wanted only to lose it forever, or if it was worse like this, knowing he could have had something he craved that was freely on offer, but which would never be so again.

Perhaps the wondering why he didn’t walk into Charles’ bedroom that night, and having no resolution, is punishment enough in itself.


End file.
